Windfall
by lilien passe
Summary: Gilbert hates the Trabant car. Angst, flashbacks, and daring escapes follow. Light Germancest.


Author's Notes:

It's been forever since I wrote anything for fun, so I'm trying to ease back into it by writing little drabbles like this. I'm sure someone else has written a far superior fic using this idea, but this is just a little practice.

While the history of the Trabant (Trabi, as it's sometimes more popularly known) is of great interest to me, I have to say that I didn't put nearly as much research into this as I should have. The car has become a symbol for the former East Germany, and is now something of a nostalgia symbol. This just a simple drabble, though, so I can't imagine anyone getting too bent out of shape about slight mechanical and historical inaccuracies.

…_Right?_

Thank you.

Warnings: Language, country-incest (ha), not real history get over it, the usual.

(~*~)

_**Windfall**_

Gilbert knew his cars. He knew what made them thrum to life, what made them purr, what made them die and how to heal them.

He knew their little flukes.

He also knew that what he was looking at could only be called a car in the loosest sense of the word. It was a box. It had wheels. It could sort of move. But the longer Gilbert stared at the stupid thing with its Duroplast siding and its dumb plastic seats and its stupid, stupid two cylinder engine that no one in their right mind would ever want, the angrier he became.

"…This?"

And there was so much insult implied in just that one, simple word.

He turned to stare incredulously up at the Russian man standing behind him, scrutinizing his every move.

"This is what I've been waitin' fifteen goddamn years for?"

Braginski was as eerily calm as he always was, but there was a vein just to the left of center on his forehead that grew rather prominent whenever he was about to lose it. That vein was practically a shelf with how much it was jutting out. Gilbert snorted at the mental image of balancing a vase on the Russian's ugly mug and reveled in Braginski's obvious annoyance. Irritating the creepy asshole was about all he could do now.

"Yes, little East. That is the car," Braginsky hummed in his sing-song voice. "I thought the shape suited you."

"If that were true, even lechers like you would think I have zero sex appeal," Gilbert muttered darkly. "And we all know that's not true. So quit tryin' to butter me up and let me set fire to this piece of shit already."

The Russian made a little noise of distress and moved to gently pat the car on its hood as though it were an oversized, ugly, plastic dog.

"But look, little East. It barely has any steel in its construction."

Gilbert's eyebrow twitched alarmingly. "And that's supposed to be a good thing?"

Braginski just smiled wider and tutted. "Of course. Do you know how hard it is to bring in steel? This poor house of yours can barely feed itself without having to worry about other unnecessary imports."

"Yeah. They're starvin' enough as it is, I suppose," Gilbert said diplomatically, barely managing to keep the rancor from his tone. He'd spit in every bottle of Braginski's vodka later.

The Russian gave the car one last affectionate pat, his cheerful voice too piercing in the crisp autumn air. "Well then. I'd better let you two get better acquainted, yes?" He smiled at Gilbert one last time before strolling off down the street, tossing a casual "Farewell, little East," over his shoulder as he went.

Gilbert gave the car a kick for good measure, and wanted to die at the sad, hollow 'thunk' sound the attack made instead of the good old noise of steel toed boots on steel. He gave a heavy sigh and popped the hood, trying to see if there was anything in the car worth salvaging. He stared at the pitiful engine for a minute before slowly closing the hood and sinking to the ground. Well. There it was. Concrete proof of how far he'd fallen. Driving this thing around would force him to sacrifice every scrap of pride he had left in a time where pride was the only vestige of his past he could cling to.

He missed cars. _Real_ cars with _real_ engines that his people didn't have to wait fifteen years just to get their hands on. Cars that could actually take you from point A to point B without fear of exploding on you, or leaking gas or oil all over the place regardless of how good the most recent patch job was.

Cars that his brother made.

Gilbert let out a shaky breath and staggered to his feet, practically crawling back inside his musty house that smelled like dog whenever it rained. The stupid thing was still sitting in his driveway. He slammed the front door shut and wished he could afford enough alcohol to get himself drunk. He needed it.

(~*~)

Gilbert took a swig of the cheap ass beer they'd managed to salvage and leaned against the garage door, watching his brother work with a bored expression on his face.

"So. Who'd you say you stole this scrap heap from?"

Ludwig didn't raise his head from where it was buried under the hood of the car. "It was abandoned on the side of the road. No one claimed it, so I got someone to tow it here."

Gilbert rolled his eyes and took another drag of beer before walking over to the car and offering the other open bottle to his brother. Ludwig stood up, his back and arms cracking as he did so, and he took the bottle with a quiet, "Thank you". Gilbert rested his elbow on the rim of the hood and looked inside at all the little bits of twisty metal. He gave a derisive snort. "You expect me to believe all this junk can make this thing go?"

Ludwig made a quiet choking noise like a bubbling, clogged sink, and Gilbert absently kicked him in the shins. "I'm serious, West. How the hell does this thing even work?" He bent over to examine the biggest piece with interest, poking it with a bony finger. "They manage to breed little horses and stick 'em in here or somethin'? You hold a bunch of baby carrots in front of them and they all run on a track and that powers the wheels?"

Ludwig was still making those weird noises and Gilbert turned around to fix his brother with a withering glare. "…What."

The younger man hid a grin behind his beer and leaned against the car. "I'd forgotten how you and technology are always at odds, my dear brother. I was just recollecting the train incident."

Gilbert did his best to look nonchalant. "In my defense I'd just finished readin' Dante. It was a perfectly natural response to think the big ass metal thing billowin' smoke was a messenger from the devil. Still not entirely convinced it isn't."

Ludwig laughed quietly and set his beer aside to rummage around under the hood again. "Well the way you attacked it was quite… noble. Although I was not aware I needed protecting from a train that was running about twenty meters away."

"It could've jumped the track things!" Gilbert insisted, poking his brother in the ribs. "You're lucky I managed to grab that sledgehammer in time or else the beast would've probably lunged for you."

Ludwig just gave an understanding hum. "And the gratuitous insults? Those were to keep the sentient trains at bay as well?"

Gilbert scowled into his beer. "Sorta. But mostly for when I hit myself in the shins with that damned hammer."

Ludwig laughed aloud at that, the noise echoing oddly around all the metal bits jammed in the car. He stood up again, wiping his hands on an already greasy rag shoved into his back pocket. He reached out to gently tug on Gilbert's rolled up sleeve, smiling indulgently. "Come on, Bruder. I'll enlighten you."

Gilbert bristled slightly at the condescending tone but allowed himself to be pulled forward until he was shoulder to shoulder with his brother. "I should tan your hide for that attitude, ingrate," he grumbled, but immediately fell silent as Ludwig started pointing out the different parts of the car. The knuckles of his brother's hands were scraped raw, grease covered his arms up to the elbows of his rolled up sleeves, fingernails blunted and ripped from work, and Gilbert could never remember his brother looking as happy as he did just then. So he shut up and paid attention, red eyes cataloguing each bit of the machine as it was explained to him. Fan belt. Spark plugs. Carburetor. Transmission. Fuses. Every little piece of the machine Ludwig handled lovingly, coaxing Gilbert to do the same.

When they got to the heart of the engine though, Gilbert had to laugh with delight. "Explosions?" he crowed, "That's what makes this thing go? Not wussy ass steam or nothin'?"

Ludwig smiled back, his blue eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Believe it or not, yes. Little miniature explosions drive the pistons."

Gilbert cackled with glee, poking the ordinary looking box again with newfound affection. "I love explosions," he cooed to the thing, "They make such lovely sounds…"

"I hate it when you treat inanimate objects kinder than you do humans. It's off-putting and frankly rather alienating."

"Hush," Gilbert tsked, poking his brother in the arm. "Me and the engine need some quality alone time."

Ludwig's eyeroll was almost audible in the still summer air. "I'll be sure to tell BMW that the political entity known as Prussia wishes to get intimate with their latest four cylinder. They'll be thrilled, I'm sure."

Gilbert patted the engine. "It's okay, baby. Ignore him. My stupid brother just doesn't understand our love."

Ludwig growled softly and wrapped an arm around Gilbert's waist to tug him away. "It's a sad, sad day when you're able to make me jealous of my damn car engine. Stop that purring."

Gilbert laughed again, a sharp burst of sound, and let himself be pulled away from the engine with a reluctant sigh and a quiet, "Later, darlin'. I promise."

He leaned against his brother for a moment longer and studied the car. "…So. BMW isn't allowed to make aircraft engines anymore, huh?" he said absently, studying the blue and white propeller logo. "That's gotta be a low blow."

Ludwig's arm tightened slightly around Gilbert's waist for a moment before he let go of the older man. "No. They're not." The blonde bent over the engine again, fiddling with some part or another, and Gilbert leaned against the garage wall, content to just watch his brother work.

"First war I can remember losin' in a long time," he muttered, toying with his now empty beer bottle. "'Course my memory's shot to hell now. Too much time in that foxhole with rats makin' love to my ear."

The car engine made a disgusted noise and a moment later Ludwig straightened up to give his brother a withering glare. "Don't _ever_ talk about that again. You know that rat was just… in heat or something else equally disturbing."

Gilbert laughed dismissively but couldn't stop himself from scratching at his ear to get rid of the horrible feeling. "Yeah, well, it was almost nice. Only intimacy I ever got down in those foxholes besides the obvious little 'flukes' as you loved to call them." He waggled his eyebrows at his brother's derrière, but it, sadly, wasn't interested in his playful seduction ploys.

"They were flukes." Ludwig's voice echoed underneath the hood of the car. "Horrible desperate flukes that nonetheless were momentarily gratifying."

Gilbert snorted into his beer bottle and gave his brother's ass a pointed look, his red eyes narrowing. "…You never do anythin' that's momentarily gratifyin'. I think I caught you yellin' at a chocolate bar the other day because it was tryin' to tempt you."

"It was. It had a very shiny wrapper. Hand me an Allen," Ludwig said, managing to make even the last command sound defensive.

Gilbert pushed himself away from the wall and rummaged about in the toolbox until he came up with a wrench that had '' scrawled across it. His helpful organizing system. He stood up and handed the wrench to his brother and moved to lean against the car instead. As nice as it was talking to Ludwig's backside, he really preferred the part of him that could show emotions other than 'irritated' and 'constipated', even if those emotions were usually in the realm of consternation anyway.

"So besides the fact that this thing runs on a mini war ragin' inside it, why d'you like it so damn much?" Gilbert asked, feeling an irrational pinprick of jealousy as he caught sight of Ludwig smiling at a carburetor. Lucky piece of metal. It was a rare day when Ludwig would smile at him.

His brother shrugged and wiped his face with the back of his greasy hand. "Cars are easy to figure out. If something is broken, you can fix it. If it's working properly, it does the same job all the time."

"…Lame." Gilbert laughed wildly and tossed his beer bottle at the garbage can. It landed with a heavy thump, thankfully retaining its original shape. Gilbert hopped up on top of the car and stretched out, staring up at the gray sky. "That's the lamest reason ever. You like cars because you can connect with them on some psychopathic level that you can't with even the most deranged of humans. Sigmund could have figured that out. Gimme a better reason. One that'll make a better story for when I need to remember why I lost my only brother and the opus of my incredibly varied life to a damn machine."

Silence reigned supreme under the hood before Ludwig's voice drifted up again.

"Cars… cars are freedom, I suppose."

Gilbert lightly tapped the top of the metal shell. "You just got done tellin' me how you like them 'cause they respond the same way every time. That doesn't say freedom to me. That says mindless worker."

The engine made a frustrated noise.

"Not freedom for the car. Freedom for the driver." Ludwig stood up, his blonde hair streaked with grease and a rather put out look on his face that had nothing to do with being messy. Heaven forbid.

"Can't you imagine? It used to take half a day at least to get from Potsdam to Berlin. Now you can do it in an hour. You could drive to Switzerland, or Italy. All the way up to Denmark or even to Russia! If-… if they made the roads, of course."

Gilbert sat up and pivoted a bit to let his long legs hang over the side of the car. He bared his teeth in an amused grin. "Why, Bruderchen. I had no idea you were stricken with such a severe case of Wanderlust. When did this happen?"

"I'm not," Ludwig said, moving to brush a bit of grease off of Gilbert's cheek, merely smudging the spot even more in the process. "But it's nice to know I have options. That I'm not contained to just this parcel of land. That my people can actually go places and touch other lives… See the ocean where the Greeks sailed or eat a tomato in the dead of winter." He gave up trying to clean Gilbert's face and took a step back, staring out at the empty road. "They're sovereignty. Escape. Everything a human's heart longs for in that quiet place they're shamed to speak of because it means betraying their home."

Gilbert hummed in thought and followed his brother's gaze.

"…You hear them different than I do, I guess. All I hear is the clamor of wounded pride."

He let out a cruel laugh and hopped off the car, patting his brother on the back. "Probably has somethin' to do with us losin' so bad, huh. Won't happen next time."

"Let's not have there be a next time. The people are angry enough as it is. We should just trust in our leaders to do what is best for our house," Ludwig said quietly, his blue eyes distant as he watched Gilbert move. The garage fell silent for a few painful moments, the clinking of metal and the echoes of voices drifting out through the open bay door.

"…Do you think they were flukes?"

Gilbert glanced up from the ice chest, his hand midway into the frosty, beer-filled depths. A bitter smile crossed his face.

"Why, brother, if you call them flukes, then that's what they were." His voice was sweet and airy as he spoke, rancid beer quickly drowning out whatever else he was going to say.

Ludwig made a soft noise and turned back to the car. "It must be frustrating for you. Having someone like me in your life." He ducked underneath the hood and started tinkering with something. "An engine for a brother that only knows one way to move. One way to respond and operate. Completely lacking in free will and—dammit!" He stood, nursing a blood knuckle, tearing at the ripped skin with his teeth.

Gilbert watched Ludwig move with hooded eyes, the thin ruby slits unusually soft.

"It can be hard, yes," he said to fill the silence. He cracked open his beer on the side of the chest. "Especially since I am hardly a skilled mechanic. When little flukes occur and my darling… engine… stops responding the way I've built it… it makes me wonder where I went wrong in its making. Why the little games we used to play suddenly became serious and turned to resentment…"

Ludwig scrubbed at his lips with the back of his hand, his gazed fixed on the uneven floor. "It wasn't you that started it, brother," he said quietly. "It was me. We both know it."

"Yes. I'd never argue that." Gilbert laughed, breaking the odd tension in the room and moved to fling himself over the top of the car again, staring up at the sky through the open door. "My little engine doesn't like the cold. It's hardly surprising that it needed someone to warm it up."

Ludwig's cheeks turned a delicate pink and he quickly got back to work. "I was worried about _you_ being cold. You don't eat enough."

"Ah, a daring and shallow pretext if ever there was one," Gilbert said lightly, balancing his beer on his chest. "If you really were worried about such a trifle then why on earth did we end up wearing fewer clothes than when we started? Rather counterproductive…"

The engine sounded like it was dying.

Gilbert licked his finger and made a tally in the air. He was still up by three.

He hopped off the car, draining his third beer of the evening. It was buzzing in his veins, making everything hum pleasantly and his lips feel like they were tingling. He set the bottle down and moved to stand behind Ludwig, reaching out to brush the tips of his fingers along his brother's spine.

"Do you still worry about me?"

Ludwig's shoulders tensed. Gilbert could practically read his brother's expression in them.

He rested his cheek against Ludwig's shoulder, his arms loosely wrapping around the younger man's waist.

"Do you still worry about me being cold, Ludwig?" he asked quietly, a little smile on his face. "Is that why you check on me at night and cook for me? Is that why you see me off at the door and welcome me home? Or is it more than a simple worry… is it something you give yourself over to, like how you've devoted your everything to this little project that once upon a time was nothing but ore in the ground and that uses little horses to run, no matter what alternative explanation you may have? Are you really an engine, my little brother? Will you respond the same every time for me?" He pressed his face against his brother's back, his eyes slipping shut as he felt some of the weariness constantly weighing on their shoulders lift.

"If you respond the same every time… then I'm cold," he said quietly. "I need another fluke. I need freedom and escape and sovereignty close…"

The engine was silence.

Ludwig slowly pushed himself up and stared down at his brother with a troubled look on his face before he set his tools aside and wrapped grease stained and battered arms around Gilbert to pull him close. He remained silent.

Gilbert listened to the rumble of Berlin in his brother's chest. Felt their hearts beating together with the pulse of the city, with the voices of their people. Felt Ludwig's lips against his and the crush of his hands and the sweet press of roughened fingers against his frozen skin.

A chronic fluke, it would seem.

(~*~)

The Trabant was abandoned to a family.

One morning Gilbert had pressed his cold fingers against the plastic and simply had enough. The humiliation, the loss, the cruel irony of the boxy thing made the little strings that held his brain together snap with a resounding curse word of the most lewd caliber.

He drove the thing to the top of a hill (getting out and pushing the last few meters), put it in neutral, and gave the boot a firm kick.

It went rolling down the hill, pathetically small tires bounding across the cracked pavement and gravel and stumps of trees that once were Linden.

It crashed into a family's garden, ruining their turnip crop. But turnips came every year. A car like this, why, it was a once in a decade opportunity. The lists of eager consumers in a non consumerist state grew longer every day.

Gilbert had watched the proceedings in the garden down the hill with grim satisfaction, the family's horror turning to confusion and then happiness as he yelled at them that it was a gift and sorry about the fence. He threw the keys as hard as he could, watching as the little boy and girl went chasing after them, laughing as they played hide and seek with the jagged bits of metal.

He left before they won the game.

It was an hour walk back into his heart, and his feet were heavy along the way. But there was no smell, no plastic box that tried to hug him with feeble arms when all he wanted was steel and grease and the thrum of an engine that had promised him sovereignty.

Midnight was around the corner when he left the outskirts. He ignored the road to his apartment, a lonely home providing no interest to him save as a nest in which to sleep.

The little vertical scar in his chest was growing, aching every day as more and more was added to it, and it was keeping him awake at night. His steps drew him to it, the delicate swirls of spiked wire reaching towards the heavens a bit more every day.

A low thrum in the ground caught his attention, and Gilbert's red eyes shifted from tracking the guards to the car. It wasn't a Trabant. British, by the look of it. Bright red. Top down and windshield conspicuously missing.

Gilbert's chest started to ache, the scar crying out with a warning he didn't understand. The car moved to the third checkpoint, and the faceless driver behind the wheel handed over the proper documents.

The scar relaxed. It liked procedure.

Without warning, the red car gunned its engine and took off towards the divide, tires squealing on the pavement and smoke billowing from the ground.

Gilbert's eyes widened and without thinking he took off after the car, his heart hurting and his head pounding as he shoved frantic guards aside. He had to see. He could feel the intent of the car, feel the freedom the whirling engine promised.

With a mighty roar the car sped underneath the final steel barrier, barely clearing the three foot high gap.

Gilbert's footsteps slowed as he approached the scar, his chest cold as he felt another leave him and enter his brother's house. The Volpos ran up to him, stammering apologies and excuses with practiced tongues.

They fell on deaf ears.

Gilbert threw back his head and laughed, his hands covering his eyes as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"West…"

His half a heart beat alone, the scar aching terribly as the other half tried to respond, longing for the freedom, the escape a simple pile of metal could provide.

The Volpos looked on in silent alarm as their country fell to his knees, laughing with hysterical, broken happiness as a small, red car betrayed him, heading ever farther West.


End file.
